


legacy

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Age Difference, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moving On, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You are 23 when you fall in love.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Original Male Character(s), Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Anonymous





	legacy

You are 22 when you leave home. Your sister sees you off in lieu of your mother, who has been quietly distraught ever since you told her you intended to leave, though she has never asked you to stay.

Your sister stands in front of you, steadfast as always. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the Lance?” She asks. “You know I’ve no use for it.”

“It’s fine,” you say, patting the sword at your side. You bow. “Be well, my Lady.”

Sharp and silver-tongued as your sister is, she doesn’t try to convince you to stay. Instead, she rolls her eyes, suspiciously damp, before she pulls you in for an embrace. “Be safe,” she says, like an order, like she knows this is something you need to do. “You always have a home here.”

You take your horse and ride, the manor’s shadow fading behind you as the sun rises, light on your shoulders.

-

You’ve become fairly attuned to the feeling of being watched. Bandits are a dying breed, but they survive by picking out lone travelers. In the other corner of the tavern, a man is watching you, though he doesn’t look like a thief, his gaze sharp as the sword at his side. As a precaution, you decide to leave, slowly making your way to the stables, to see if you are followed. It’s better to take care of a problem before it can become one.

His footsteps are light, near silent if not for the thin layer of snow coating the dirt. You slow your hands as you work to untie your horse from the post, lowering one, your glove sliding against the pommel of your sword before curling around the grip.

“Sylvain?”

You give pause. It’s rare for you to hear that name spoken out loud. Still holding your sword, you turn around. The man from the tavern stares back at you with amber eyes, his face pale like he’s seen a ghost. He looks young, despite the grey streaks in his short blue hair. You furrow your brow, dropping your hand away. There's something familiar about him. “You knew my father?”

-

He tells you his name is Felix and that he was an old friend of your father’s. He’s been wandering for over twenty years now, all over Fódlan and its neighboring countries, gone as far as Dagda, living by his sword, living off the land. You’re curious about his life, curious about him, because he’s seen the places you want to see, because your father never told you much about his past, but despite being the one to call out to you, Felix is quiet, gruff in his responses.

“A lot had happened back then,” he says, in his camp outside of town. “Best left in the past.”

It only intrigues you more, how your father, a personable, respected diplomat, came to befriend a dour sellsword. You look at Felix across the fire, the light deepening the shadows of his face, the lines under his eyes. “Were you able to go to the funeral?”

Felix looks at you, then lowers his gaze, tossing another bundle of sticks into the fire. “I couldn’t make it.”

-

“Nice weather today.”

You dream of this day often. You are sitting by your father’s bed, with your sister as she goes over the new decrees with him, as you help her with revisions. Your father passed the title on to your sister when he became ill, serving as her advisor, his mind and wit still sharp despite his weakening physical health.

“Papa,” your sister says, exasperated. “Are you even listening?”

He fakes a yawn. “You should take a break every now and then,” he says with a sigh. “Enjoy the little things. The nice thing about peacetime is the lack of urgency.”

She purses her lips and relents, setting down the parchment as you set aside your quill. The burden of leadership is difficult to bear, but your sister is well-suited for it. The three of you sit quietly, the golden sunlight filling the room with warmth. It's a nice day for winter.

“Sweetheart,” your father breathes after a while. The both of you turn toward your father, see his eyes closing. “Can you get your mother?”

Your sister’s brow furrows. “Are you not feeling well?”

Your father exhales; it might be a laugh. “I haven’t been well in a long time,” he says wryly, still having the energy for a joke. “But I think I’d like to sleep soon.”

After a beat, the reams of parchment scatter onto the floor, footsteps pounding against the floor as your sister rushes out of the room, shouting for the servants to find your mother. For a moment, you consider going with her, but you don’t want to leave your father’s side, noticing that your father’s hand moves a little, beckoning you closer.

“Son.” You take your sister’s seat, leaning in close. “Have you decided what you want to do?”

You look at your father. You don’t know what to say because you don’t have an answer. You don’t have the knack for politics the way your father or sister does, nor a talent for art like your mother — at 21, you still don’t know your place in this world, what you want to accomplish. “I…”

The silence stretches, your heart pounding. Patient as always, he pats your hand. “That’s okay. I didn’t know what I wanted for a long time.” He takes a breath. “Take your time. Expand your horizons. Best way to learn.”

You clutch tight to his hand, reassured when he squeezes yours. “Father,” you say, “is there anything you want me to do?”

He smiles, small and wan. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did,” he murmurs; you can tell he’s losing energy. He opens his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Go help your sister. Don’t worry — I’ll hang on until you all get here.”

Hesitant, you nod, rising to your feet and leaving, casting your father one more glance before you run to find them. You’ll always remember the last time you saw your father alive, how he had turned to look out the window, the sun setting behind the mountains, how you could have sworn you heard him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

-

“Can I travel with you?” You ask Felix in the morning.

Felix looks at you as he chews on a piece of dried venison. He kicks dirt over the remains of the fire, tossing his rucksack onto his horse. “Do as you like.”

Somehow, you feel drawn to him. Like there's a voice in your head that keeps saying, _don’t leave him alone._

-

There are things about Felix you notice as you travel with him. Sometimes he murmurs to himself, things you can’t hear; you suppose you would too, if you traveled alone for so long. When you pass through the northern cities, he tells you about them as you ride through the ruins as though they were still bustling with life. He lowers his gaze when Imperial guards pass. When he sleeps, he sleeps with his sword at his side, always, and sleeps fitfully.

Your father didn’t sleep well either.

You know there was a war that came before you. At Garreg Mach, you were told it was a terrible but necessary war, a grueling campaign to achieve the peace Fodlan has today. There are some things your father told you, like the royal family that ruled what was once the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, the house yours once swore fealty to, before he fell silent. “Things are different now,” he would say, his voice strangely detached like it couldn’t be helped, and that would be that.

There are relics in the manor, some hidden away — faded paintings of a blond-haired young man, of a severe man who resembles your father, a tattered Academy uniform different from the one you wore — and some in plain sight.

“I’m surprised that old thing is still in one piece,” Felix says when you catch him looking at your sword, asking if he recognized it. “Where did you dig it up?”

“My father kept it mounted in his study,” you tell him, handing it to him. “He left it to me.”

Felix is silent for a beat too long. He pulls the sword from its sheath, his eyes running down the blade. “He didn’t give you the Lance?”

You think of the Lance of Ruin, how it had been hidden away in your father’s study until he passed, wrapped like it was something to be buried. “I didn’t take it.”

The truth is your father didn’t give you this sword either. You used to see your father late at night, carefully sharpening this sword even though you had never seen it used, his head bowed as though he were listening for something in the whisper of the steel sliding against the stone. You took it, hoping it might bring you closer to knowing your father, but when Felix runs his fingers over the mysterious mark carved into the hilt, letting out a soft breath, you find that you only have more and more questions.

-

You hate the way bandits fight, unfair and underhanded, often using numbers to their advantage. Aside from the occasional mission, you earned most of your experience fighting in tournaments, in training sessions and spars.

Felix, on the other hand, fights with a grace you’ve never seen before, cutting down his foes with ease. You had never thought to call the act of killing beautiful until you met Felix.

“Kid,” you hear Felix say after he dispatches the last of the bandits. “Hey, you with me?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, wincing. The cut across your side stings, but despite the blood, you know it should be an easy fix. Felix holds his hand over the wound, murmuring a healing spell. You let out a sigh of relief as the pain fades, shaking out the itch of the flesh knitting together. When you look at Felix, he looks angry, more than usual.

“You nobles are always so soft,” Felix says, standing. “Don’t try and be a hero when you lack the skill to defend yourself.”

You scowl, unused to being chided. Felix is a harsh teacher, critical of your skill, or lack thereof. It takes some getting used to, but you understand it comes from a place of concern.

That night, as you sew up the tear in your clothes, you see Felix shake and twitch under his blanket. Nightmares, you think at first, but it’s worse than usual, his skin sheened with sweat. Wondering if he’s caught a fever, you reach over to touch his forehead, jolting when he catches your wrist before you can, his eyes snapping open, wide and frightened before they fall on you — at least, that’s what you thought.

“Sylvain,” he breathes, the panic in his eyes quickly replaced with relief. “I thought you had died.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m not —”

His hand slides up to press yours against his cheek, his eyes closing as he leans into it. “How many times do I have to tell you not to be so stupid?” He says softly.

You’ve never seen this side of him before, vulnerable. He even sounds different — you never knew his voice was laden with such bitterness until you heard it without. “I’m sorry,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say. It must have been the wrong thing because his grip tightens, his nails digging into your palm, his brow furrowing.

“Don’t say that.”

Felix opens his eyes and looks at you. Looks at you but he doesn’t see you. There’s something unsteady about his gaze, unfocused like he’s looking right through you. You try to pull your hand away, but he holds fast.

“Don’t leave me, Sylvain,” Felix pleads. “You promised.”

Your heart pounds against your chest. You want to tell him _I’m not him, I’m not my father_ , but the words are caught in your throat. Felix looks at you like he’s found what he’s been searching for, something he can’t bear to let go of.

“Sylvain,” he whispers when you don't speak, like his heart has been broken, and you wish you knew what to say to make him stop — instead, you cover his mouth with your own, just so you don’t have to hear him say it again.

-

Back in your own bedroll, you hear Felix wake, hear him start the fire and start cooking before you roll over, pretending to wake up.

“Just in time for breakfast,” Felix says, his eyes fixed on the rabbits he’s roasting over the fire.

It feels as though nothing happened and it might as well be true because he didn’t say your name a single time last night.

-

You remember now, years ago —

“You could stay.”

There was a man in your father’s study. Your father had left for a few days to take care of something — “Official business,” he had said with a smile, ruffling your hair before he left with his horse, a lance in his hand. He returned with this man who didn’t smile, who seemed to regard everything and everyone with suspicion, that is, except for your father.

“You have a family,” the man said. His dark hair, tied up when he arrived, was let loose, spilling down his shoulders, softening the sharpness of him.

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for you here.”

A scoff. “Still as greedy as ever,” he muttered. “You have everything you need.”

“Do I?”

The fire crackled in the seemingly eternal silence. You saw their shadows move, meeting, just for a few moments before one pulled away — you can't recall which one. You remember worrying that this stranger would take your family’s place in your father’s life, as children did. You realize now that you were the ones that took his.

-

Sometimes, when Felix is lucid, you can coax something out of him. You learn that Felix had known your father almost his entire life, that they were at the academy together when the war broke out. You learn that like you, he has a Crest, that he was of House Fraldarius, once occupying the southeastern land of Gautier before it was dissolved.

“Sylvain was right about Crests. That was one good thing that came out of that war, getting rid of that wretched system. It was a goal he had always wanted to achieve.” To your surprise, Felix smiles, a small, fragile, wistful thing. “He always said that after the war, he —”

He stops, abrupt, then falls silent. You look at him, the smile disappearing. His brow furrowed, he shakes his head, just once, then gets up, goes over to his bedroll. “Said what?”

Felix looks away. “He said a lot of things,” he says. “We all said a lot of things.”

-

He doesn’t ever touch you when he doesn’t think you are your father. You would admire that faithfulness, if you weren’t so busy cursing it.

“Sylvain,” Felix says softly. “Your eyes…”

You have your mother’s eyes — hazel, the bright ring of emerald green only visible if you’re close enough to see it. You wonder if your father had ever looked into your mother’s eyes and wished they were brighter, more like firelit amber.

“It’s just the light, Felix,” you say, closing your eyes, feeling his fingers brush against your cheek.

You aren’t good for him, but you can’t seem to let go of him either.

-

“He’s something special, isn’t he?”

It's the same dream, the same memory: your father's room, the papers your sister dropped fluttering on the floor, the sun setting on the horizon. But the man lying in the bed doesn’t look like the man you saw on his deathbed, nor does he even look like the man you grew up half-knowing; he looks even younger, clad in a foot-soldier’s armor. He looks just like you — rather, you look just like him — but unlike yours, his eyes are the right color.

“You were in love with him,” you say to your father, neither a question or an accusation.

Sylvain smiles. “I was,” he says, serenely, like it was something he had been waiting to admit for years.

“He’s still in love with you.”

Sylvain’s smile falters, just a little, before he covers it with a soft laugh. “I could never be enough for him,” he admits. “I couldn’t make him happy. He was always leaving me.”

You think of Felix, looking at you — not you. You used to wonder what Felix saw in your father — not because your father was cruel but because you realize you knew Sylvain as your father, as margrave, but you never knew him as a man, the way you’ll never know Felix. You love him, in ways you’re not sure how to name, but all you’ll ever know of Felix is the fractured remains of him, the shade of him in the memories you have of your father. You don’t know how two people could love each other this much and not choose each other. “Why didn’t you ask him to stay?”

Sylvain looks out the window, the golden light still spilling in. On his youthful face, you finally recognize what you always saw in your father but never knew how to name — regret, a quiet, heartbroken sadness. “I broke all of my promises to him. I didn’t have the right to try to hold on to him.” Sylvain looks away. “Take care of him for me, won’t you? Make him happy the way I couldn’t.”

“I can’t,” you say, despite wishing it was a promise you could make, despite wanting to be forgiven for the betrayal you've committed. “He doesn’t see me.”

He is silent for a long while. “I’m sorry, son,” Sylvain finally says. “You're still a Gautier. And maybe we can’t escape what’s in our blood to live in the shadow of our fathers.”

You’ve never seen it before, the prideful insincerity behind his smile. It’s strangely fitting. Like the face you mirror, perhaps this is something you share with him — the desire to monopolize, to take something that can never belong to you. The satisfaction of knowing that you have something over each other, something that neither of you can take away.

-

You could go on like this. You could pretend, let Felix believe what he wants, hold on to him the way your father couldn't. But your father always told you your worth was more than your Crest, your blood — you want it to be true. You want to be more than what you inherited from your father. You want to surpass him. You want to honor him.

What sets you apart from your father is that you can learn from his mistakes.

You ask Felix to accompany you to Gautier. He doesn’t refuse. He is silent for most of the trip and you don’t ask him what’s on his mind. You're not sure he would tell you anyway.

When you arrive, you don’t go to the manor. Instead, you take Felix straight to the place he wants to go. Your father didn’t want to be buried in the family crypt — “So dark and depressing,” he had joked — so he is buried at the edge of the forest, underneath the towering pine trees.

You don’t know if this will heal him. Maybe it will break him instead. All you know is that this is a legacy you’re unwilling to bear, a story that needs an ending. This is something like closure, like mercy, for him and for you.

You stand in silence in front of your father’s grave, waiting. You don’t know how much time has passed when the grass beside you finally rustles, as Felix moves forward, his boots dragging against the ground like he wants to resist each step, until he falls to his knees in front of the headstone.

“Sylvain,” you hear Felix whisper, the softest you’ve ever heard him speak that name, the softest you've ever heard anyone speak that name. His body is bowed over the grave, shaking, his fingers digging into the dirt like he wants to be rooted here for the rest of his life. “I’m here.”

The shadow of your father’s headstone embraces him like a shroud. You wish you knew the promises they made, the secrets they kept for each other, but you can’t, never will. With the sword he had given your father at your side, there is nothing you can do but offer him peace.

“When the time comes, I’ll bury you here too,” you promise him.

When Felix lifts his head, he doesn’t look at you. You know he will never look at you again, but you find comfort in that, in the relief on his face, like a burden has finally been lifted. He reaches out to touch the headstone, gently, tracing Sylvain’s name. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> An odd, experimental story idea that I haven't been able to abandon, so I decided to write it a bit. For those curious about the ages/timeline: Sylvain has a daughter at 25, a son at 27. He passes at 48 when his son is 21, which makes Felix 47-48 at the time of this story (I hope I didn't mess up that math somehow lmao)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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